


Dream A Good One Tonight (i'll listen to the bad ones when they come)

by ohhaypsy



Series: Missing [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Insecurity, Insomnia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhaypsy/pseuds/ohhaypsy
Summary: Richie doesn't sleep anymore. That's okay, though.It means he can be there when the others can't either.





	Dream A Good One Tonight (i'll listen to the bad ones when they come)

**Author's Note:**

> Based more or less entirely on the 2017 movie's canon and characterizations. I actually stopped reading the book so I could keep them separate.
> 
> You can see lots of Eddie/Richie ~~subtext~~ supertext in here, but it's very much friendship focused.
> 
> So, this is the first time I've written for a fandom that I don't have years of intimacy with. If I fucked anything up terribly, please let me know.
> 
> Title from '100 Stories' by Alkaline Trio

Richie doesn't sleep much after that summer. He doubts that any of the other Losers do either, woken up by similar nightmares about clowns and and sewers and more of their own personal horrors each of them had lived through.

They don't talk about it as much as they probably should, their memories of all that happened hazy during daylight hours, waiting until they're alone in the dark to come for them. Eddie confesses to Richie one day when they're sitting alone together that he can't sleep without a nightlight.

They're out in the Barrens, the rest of the guys futzing with rocks to try and dam up the stream. Richie's a bit away, stretched out on the ground beneath a tree, arms folded behind his head, while Eddie sits huddled next to him, loosely hugging his knees. He doesn't look back at Richie when he mentions the nightlight.

Richie, however, is watching the other boy intently. "Fuck dude, you use a nightlight?" He can see Eddie's face pinch in a scowl, ready to snarl back at him, assuming that Richie's making fun of him. But Richie continues before he can. "I have to keep the lights totally on in my room." It's a truth, but not a full one. Lights on or not, he doesn't sleep. "My dad keeps bitching about the electricity bill."

Eddie's head snaps back to look at Richie in surprise. Richie just shrugs, and looks up at the sky. "Helps to see the whole room."

Eddie doesn't say anything, just watching Richie for a long moment before turning back to watching the other boys following Ben's instructions.

\--

Things haven't been right since Bev left for Portland. It's strange; they'd only truly known her for one summer, and she's been gone for roughly that same amount of time. But without her, there's been a gaping hole in their group. Ben and Bill send her letters, but the responses are infrequent.

Which is why it surprises the shit out of Richie when she calls him at two a.m.

It's a Saturday, and he's still awake, zoning out to quiet infomercials, when the phone rings. He startles, and goes to grab it quickly; his parents are heavy sleepers but if his mother wakes up and comes down to see him still up, she'd be pissed.

Instead of immediately picking up and then hanging up, like he should have for a random two a.m. call, Richie answers the phone. "Roadkill Cafe, you kill it, we grill it."

The line is silent, except for quiet, shaky breathing. Richie frowns. "If you're just going to breathe creepily at my voice, the least you can do is give me some jerk off material in return."

"Hey, Richie." The voice is still shaky, but Richie can hear the hint of a smile in it.

He grins, recognizing the voice after a moment. "Hey, Bev. Missing that sweet Tozier lovin'?"

The laugh is small, but it's there. "You know it."

"So what's up? You thinking 'bout me late at night and just had to hear my sexy voice?"

"Kinda." Her tone is far too somber for the bullshit he's spouting. "Just… needed to talk to someone and your number was the only one I could remember."

Shit. If she's calling this late -- actually _calling,_ and long-distance, too -- shit had to be fucked. He takes a moment, just a moment, to be uncharacteristically serious. "Bev, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." That's a lie, she sounds on the edge of tears. "I'm sorry, it was stupid of me to call this late, I should--"

"Hey, hey, it's cool. I was still awake and my parents are still asleep, so we're cool.” He sits on the ground, stretching the phone cord. "So how's life in Portland? Bet you're running that shit by now. You've missed absolutely fuck all here. Well, unless you count Ben getting a new bike and promptly crashing into a tree the next week. That was over a month ago, he's still paying his mom back. Oh wait -- remember Mr. Bedford, the math teacher? Well he and Ms. Jennings from the office totally got caught screwing in the janitor's closet. You should have seen it, they…"

Richie rambles to Bev for an hour. She laughs and responds when appropriate, but mostly just listens. He never asks why she called; Richie's smart enough to figure it out.

It's 3:04 when he finishes regaling her about how Greta Keene is almost definitely maybe blowing at least three guys on the football team, and she doesn't respond. He can hear her breathing, slow and steady. He'd talked her to sleep, just as he'd hoped.

"Night, Bev," he says quietly, then after a pause, adds, "We all miss you." He hangs up the phone and goes to bed, managing a few hours of sleep himself.

She calls again two days later.

\--

Time is supposed to help things, to dull the trauma, but Richie's decided that's bullshit. He's still not sleeping, and for the first time in his life he's glad for his monstrous glasses. They help hide the dark bags growing under his eyes.

Richie wonders if anyone has noticed. He can't blame them if they haven't, all wrapped in their own shit. But for all he talks, Richie _watches_ too.

Stan's been touching his face a lot. There are no scars, no physical reminders, same as Ben's stomach. But Stan's always got a hand on his face, fingers trailing along the skin, as though he's looking for them.

Stan might be ostensibly watching him play Street Fighter, leaning up against the next arcade machine over, but his gaze is far away. Richie’s got one eye on the screen, the other on his friend; he's playing like shit anyway, his reflexes dulled from lack of sleep.

"Bev called me last night." When Stan startles at his words, Richie's got his entire focus on the game, not wanting Stan to know he's been watching. Stan doesn't say anything, and Richie keeps talking.

"At o'fuck-thirty in the morning." It’s a lie -- the last time Bev called him was ten days ago, even if it still was at o'fuck-thirty. "Luckily, I'm fast enough to get to get to the phone before my parents wake up and flip their shit. Portland sounds frickin' awesome. Guy at the gas station has a crush on her, so he lets her buy smokes whenever she wants. And apparently, the dope is fucking killer down there. Soon as one one of us gets a license, we're doing a road trip, I don't give a shit. How cool would that be? All six of us piling in, head down there for the weekend…"

Richie talks through another three dollars in quarters. It's all bullshit, mostly about how much pussy they'd get in Portland, while Stan rolls his eyes. But Stan is smart, and Richie knows he'll pick up on the important parts.

Four days later, Stan calls him at 1:12 in the morning. And spends thirty minutes listening to Richie yammer about how good Han Solo and Princess Leia's sex life must be. Stan's next call is a week later.

\--

Either Bev or Stan must have told Ben about their late night phone calls to the Tozier house. Why else would Ben, polite to a fault, think to risk waking up Richie's parents with a twelve-thirty phone call on a school night?

"Did you finish your math homework?" Ben's voice is shaky in a way Richie's come to recognize. Not to mention the flimsiest excuse. Everyone knows Richie Tozier doesn't do homework.

"Nah, quadratic equations are boring as shit." Despite his words, he grabs his backpack off the floor of his bedroom, and hoists it up onto the bed.

Ben laughs weakly at Richie's answer. "Were you even paying attention in Algebra today?"

"'Course not!" Richie sounds offended at the idea that he might have been. "Didn't you see how low cut Ms. Cutler's blouse was? How was I supposed to pay attention with a rack like that just hanging out?"

 _"Stem and leaf plots,_ Richie." Ben was already sounding better.

"Ugggh," Richie groans in return. But his book is out to the right page, and he's got pencil and paper in hand. "But since you desperately need my _brilliant_ mind to guide you through the horrors of Algebra homework, I guess I can spare the time for ya, Hanscom."

Richie does his Algebra homework with Ben that night. He's terrible at school, but probably one of the smartest kids in the class in all actuality. Other students shoot him dirty glares when he aces the tests despite having done no coursework. He can't even count how often the words _'if only you applied yourself'_ have been thrown at him throughout his life.

Ms. Cutler looks shocked when he hands in his homework the next day. Richie winks at her before shooting finger guns at an exhausted looking -- but smiling -- Ben.

Ben calls for regular late night homework sessions after that.

\--

Mike doesn't call. He just shows up instead.

It's not as late as the phone calls are at least. Ten o'clock on a Saturday, Richie's in the living room when he hears the quiet knock on the door. His parents are already up in their room, but Richie's startled confusion slows him enough where it takes another knock before he heads to the door. When a glance through the peephole shows Mike standing there, hands in his pockets, Richie flings open the door.

He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. "Well, Jeee-hosephat, if it ain't good ol' Homeschool," he says in his best hillbilly voice. "What done bring you down to my neck a' tha woods?"

Mike doesn't react, just shrugs. "Was riding by. Figured I'd stop by and say hi."

 _Bullshit._ The only time Mike's ever out this late is when he's staying over at someone's house. He's a farm boy, used to getting up at the crack of dawn to work. There was no way he just happened to be 'riding by.'

Uncharacteristically, Richie drops the front. There’s something about Mike that when it's just the two of them, Richie's voices and jokes just seem _wrong._ Maybe it's because he's so serious all the time, exuding a sense of maturity that none of the rest of them, even Bill, can match.

But apparently even grown-up-as-fuck Mike needs to reach out to a friend in the dark sometimes.

Richie straightens up, and gestures over his shoulder and into the house. "Wanna play Mario?" Even if his parents wake up, it's a Saturday, and they wouldn't be too fussed to find Mike hanging out. They don't really care much about that sort of thing. Or a lot of others, especially as Richie gets older.

Mike nods. "Sure." And steps inside.

For once, Richie doesn't talk much as they pass the controller back and forth. Mike is just such a solid, steady, _quiet_ presence that Richie feels like he's breaking some sort of spell if he opens his trap to blab the way he does with the others. And strangely enough, the silence with Mike is _comfortable._ That never happens.

At about midnight, Richie tries to hand off the controller, only to find Mike curled in the armchair, asleep. Richie turns down the volume on the television and settles back in to the couch to keep playing.

Surprisingly, he's actually asleep when Mike gets up at buttfuck-early and leaves.

Mike calls next time.

\--

Richie wonders if the other Losers talk to each other about the fact that Richie doesn't sleep, about how he's always somehow awake to take their late night phone calls. He hopes they don't; he doesn't want them to stop calling him in some misguided attempt to not interrupt the sleep he's not getting. In his opinion, the phone calls are just as much for him. It's a lot easier to distract himself throughout the night by blabbing to his friends instead of staring at the ceiling.

He thinks they do, though. Because Eddie risks the wrath of his mother by going down to the phone in the kitchen and calling at three am.

Eddie's call is the scariest; he's already crying when Richie picks up the phone. "Eddie? Holy shit, breathe, man, it's okay, I'm here."

"I saw the leper, Richie," he manages between sobs. "He was here, _in my fucking room._ I know he wasn't real, but Jesus fuck it _felt_ so fucking _real."_

Richie's got the phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder, fumbling to put on his jacket. "Fuck your mom, I'm coming over."

"Richie, no, don't, you'll--"

"Fuck you too, I'm on my way." He slams the receiver down before Eddie can protest.

Richie is pretty sure he wakes up his parents when he leaves, not bothering to be quiet as he rushes out of the house. He's also pretty sure he's never pedaled so hard in his life. Luckily, Eddie's house isn't far. He only almost eats shit once.

He drops his bike in the front yard, nearly vaulting off of it, rushing up to the house. He can probably scale the tree to Eddie's window if need be, but maybe Mrs. Kaspbrak is asleep and he won't have to. He peers in the front window to check -- yup, passed out in front of the television. He lucks out again -- the door is unlocked. He wonders if Eddie unlocked it for him.

Ever so carefully, as quiet as possible, he slips inside and navigates his way through the dark house. Eddie's not in the kitchen anymore, so he heads up to Eddie's room.

Eddie doesn't startle when Richie enters the room, (holding the handle to close the door so it doesn't click,) just sitting on his bed, loosely clutching his knees.

Richie carefully goes to sit on the bed in front of him. "Hey."

He seems to have calmed down -- it makes sense, he's probably had to bring himself down from plenty of freak outs. "I told you not to come, you asshole," Eddie admonishes, wiping tears from his cheeks.

"You know me, can't ever resist the urge to come."

"Fuck you." The words lack Eddie's usual bite. He looks fucking exhausted.

Richie scoots closer and puts his hand on Eddie's shoulder. "Hey. If you really want, I'll leave."

Eddie's quiet for a long moment before shaking his head. "No, it's … it's okay." He takes a deep breath, relaxing a bit. "Sorry if I woke you up. I just… I was freaking out, and Stan let it slip that he called you late the other night, and I, I just needed to…"

"It's fine. I'll sleep when I'm dead, yeah? Though hopefully you'll get some before that." He reaches over to turn the lamp off -- fuck, he's glad for Eddie's nightlight. "Just lay down, okay? I'll stay until you fall asleep, pay a quick visit to your mom's room, then be out before she even realizes it."

"Yeah, it'd only take you two seconds." Eddie lays down on his side, then hesitates before shifting so his head is resting on Richie's leg. "...Thanks, Richie."

Richie looks down at him in dull surprise. "...Anytime. You just interrupted me jerking off, no big deal." His hand hovers over Eddie's head for a moment. _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and gently cards his fingers through Eddie's hair. "Now go the fuck to sleep so I can finish off in privacy."

"Don't make me punch you in the dick, asshole." Eddie's voice is still tired, but not as drowsy as Richie had been hoping.

"Don't threaten me with a good time." He shifts to lean back against the wall, and Eddie moves with him, his head now in Richie's lap instead of just on his thigh.

Richie tries not to think about it, and just starts up his usual sort of monologue. "You know that senior, Angie Eddleston? I saw her giving a handjob to Peter Safford under the bleachers, no joke. Mark Richards said she sucks like a vacuum. Think she's into younger guys? She's fucking crazy, but those are always the best in the sack. Apparently, she tried to stick her finger in…"

Eddie doesn't fall asleep until after dawn. Richie keeps running his fingers through Eddie's hair, staying until he hears Mrs. Kaspbrak start to move around the house. Careful not to wake Eddie, Richie slips out the window. He nearly breaks his wrist falling out of the tree. He gets yelled at by his parents when he gets home -- not for being out all night, but for waking them up.

Eddie calls him every night that week. He calls more than anyone else.

\--

Richie thinks it might be summer that's fucking up his sleep even more than before. In a way it's good, because now he's getting a phone call from at least one of the Losers nearly nightly, sometimes more than one.

With the frequency of calls over the last year, Richie has learned to be extra careful to not wake his parents. Every night, after they go to bed, he creeps down and steals the phone, bringing it back up and plugging it into the phone jack in his bedroom. Then returns it every morning before they wake up. Even on nights he does manage to sleep, it's only for a few hours, and he still gets it back down in the morning.

Even so, he's gotta figure something out for when his parents figure out what he's doing. His dad has been bitching about the phone bill all year.

Richie's not the only one who's been extra fucked up since school let out. Stan is more taciturn than normal, Eddie more manic. Ben spends a lot of time with his head in his notebook, even when they're all hanging out. Mike barely manages to meet up with them for more than one afternoon, supposedly up to his nutsac in work at the farm. When Bev calls, Richie can't manage to talk her to sleep anymore. Bill is, well, Bill. He's still the only one in the group that Richie hasn't gotten a middle of the night call from.

It's been one year to the day since their sewer-traipsing, clown-murdering adventure, and they still don't mention it, they still don't bring it up. Even so, they've planned a sleepover at Richie's -- his parents are out of town for the week, visiting Richie's aunt in Massachusetts. They leave him alone with some money, not bothering to find someone to stay with him. They haven't bothered with that since his sister left for college last fall.

So Richie does what any teenage boy would when having friends over to a parentless house. He pulls a bottle of whiskey out of his parents' liquor cabinet.

They finish it pretty early between the six of them, each a little buzzed as they settle in to watch movies. The whiskey is just enough of a soporific that by the end of the second movie, they're all passed out, strewn across the Tozier living room.

Well almost all of them. Richie is stretched out on the couch, (it's his house, he should get the best space, he'd claimed,) his legs across Eddie's lap. Eddie had surprised them by drinking more than anyone else, but it had caught up to him, and he was asleep sitting up before they'd even finished Ghostbusters, their first film of the night. So Richie had quietly, carefully slid his legs across the little nerd's lap, and couldn't help but grin when Eddie's arms settled on them, one hand loosely curled around his calf.

That had been about two hours ago. Now Richie stares at the ceiling, listening to the end credits music of Back to the Future. As usual, his brain is too loud to let him just fall asleep. Instead he debates with himself on if Batman really counts as a superhero. It's not like he has superpowers, he's just a guy with a metric fuck ton of money. But he still manages to keep up with Superman and Green Lantern and all those other guys, so does that qualify him to be a superhero just by comparison?

His defining of the word 'superhero' is interrupted by Bill getting up, quietly, obviously trying to not wake anyone else. Richie doesn't think much of it and lays still, letting Bill think he's asleep too. He probably just has to take a leak. But the VHS tape runs out, and after another ten minutes, Bill still hasn't returned.

Careful so as not to disturb Eddie, Richie gets up and tiptoes around the rest of the Losers to head down the hallway. The door to the bathroom is partially open, and he can see Bill, sitting against the bathtub, arms around his knees as he stares at the floor.

Well, Richie knew he wasn't going to sleep tonight anyway.

Richie pushes the door open and enters the bathroom, dropping down to sit next to Bill like it's the most normal thing in the world. "So I rewatched Howard the Duck the other day, and seriously, I still can't stop thinking about that duck with tits. It caught me off guard too, almost like I'd forgotten it, but how do you forget something like that? Did I block it out? What are they for? Does she puke out her tits to feed her babies?'

That gets a small chuckle out of Bill. "Oh god, shut up, Richie, that's d-d-disgusting."

Richie shrugs. "That's biology. Birds puke to feed their kids. They evolved to be disgusting. My aunt has a cockatoo; she just lets it fly around the house and it shits _everywhere._ The whole fucking house smells like bird crap. It shit on my sister's head one time, it was _hilarious,_ she didn't even…"

He rambles about birds for at least an hour and a half. At some point, Bill starts to drift off, his head drooping to rest on Richie's shoulder. Richie quiets down, letting Bill fall asleep.

He's not quite there yet, and groggily mumbles. "I saw a kid that looked like G-Georgie yesterday. Last night I dreamed a-about him in the sewer."

Fuck. "It's okay," he says softly. "Go to sleep, Bill."

Bill's out before Richie finishes the sentence.

The very next night, Richie gets a phone call at 3:30 in the morning. It's Bill, Carries-the-World-on-his-Shoulders Bill, finally calling him. Richie talks to Bill about Street Fighter until dawn.

\--

The calls become less frequent after August. Bev especially. With each call, she gets progressively more distant, pausing longer after each time Richie answers. Almost like she's having a hard time remembering why she's calling. Or who.

The last time Richie hears from her, she says, "Sorry. Wrong number." And hangs up.

The others seem to be doing better as time goes. He gets one, maybe two calls a week. But he still grabs the phone every night.

Ben and his mother leave Derry during winter break. He doesn't call. Richie tries calling him exactly once, (and during daylight hours at that,) but when he says his name and Ben asks _'Who?'_ Richie slams down the receiver.

Stan stops calling by February, Bill by Easter. When summer comes, Eddie's the only one who still calls him. Once a week, Sunday night, at midnight exactly.

Richie knows it's because of church. Ever since that summer, his mother has dragged him to not just morning mass, but evening mass too. Praying for her baby's soul since he's become such a disobedient boy, spending so much time with his hooligan friends. She fights him less about hanging out with them, instead leaning hard on good ol' Catholic guilt.

It makes Richie glad that his family was always just the Christmas and Easter sort.

The Sunday talks with Eddie are different though. They're just that -- talks. And Eddie talks to him, rather than listening to Richie ramble on about whatever stupid shit crosses his mind until falling asleep. Honestly, Richie does more _listening_ than anything else, as strange as it sounds. Listens to Eddie go on about whatever hellfire and brimstone the priest was spouting tonight. Or about how Greta Keene was being _weird_ to him the other day. Or about the racist shit his mom said about Mike's family.

Richie fucking _hates_ Eddie's mother. She'd guilted him into taking his meds again, despite knowing they were bullshit. But it made her leave him alone about at least one damn thing. He knows they're bullshit, but he still takes them, even when he's out with his friends, unless they remind him that he doesn't need to. They don't remember to remind him often enough.

But at least Eddie didn't let her take him from his friends. Never again. He promised. And Richie would never admit it, but he looks forward to Eddie's weekly phone call. No matter how tired he is, how close he is to actually getting some sleep for once, he still takes the phone up to his room and curls up around it, waiting for midnight.

\--

It's June. School is letting out, and Richie can feel the tension starting to ramp up as the anniversary approaches, just like last summer. He wonders if it's going to be like this every summer for the rest of his life. Probably.

Stan tells them that his family is moving at the end of the month. He says he'll call, that he'll write, but Bev and Ben made the same promises. Richie knows in his gut that Stan won't, not for long anyway. The same way he knows, somehow, that all of them are going to drift away from the shithole that is Derry. Everyone's family has been talking about moving. He's even heard his own parents toying with the idea of leaving within the next few years.

It scares the ever-loving shit out of him. Stan's going to forget him like Ben and Bev did, then Mike or Bill or whoever the fuck leaves next. He can't imagine forgetting any of them. They're the only people he's ever really had. But they're all going to forget about him, and he'll be alone.

Miraculously, and against his will, Richie falls asleep that night. And of course, so come the old nightmares.

He's in the sewers, alone, running, from It or towards his friends, he doesn't know, probably both. The walls are covered in those motherfucking _'MISSING'_ posters, that fucking clown laugh gaining on him. He finds them, the Losers, standing around in some restaurant; they're adults though, while Richie's thirteen again. He screams for Bill, tugs at Mike's sleeve, grabs for Bev's hand, but none of them turn, they can't see him, they can't fucking _hear_ him.

Finally, it's Eddie that looks at him, and Richie's heart is in his throat. Adult-Eddie frowns at Richie for a moment, then recognition dawns in his eyes. _"Aren't you one of those kids that went missing?"_

He hears the fucking clown's laugh, right behind his ear. _"Beep beep, Richie."_

Richie wakes up in a cold sweat to the phone ringing.

Reality comes flooding back to him. He's in his room. The phone's ringing. It's Sunday, midnight. Eddie's calling him.

He drops the receiver when he first picks it up, his hands damp and clammy. After a quick fumble, he puts it up to his ear. "House of the Lord, God speaking." He's breathing too fast. He hears the shake in his voice; he's heard it so often from the others that he can't help but recognize it in his own. Hopefully Eddie doesn’t notice.

But of fucking _course,_ he does, the asshole. "Richie? Richie, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I just-- just--" Fuck, _fuck,_ he can't fucking _breathe._

Eddie's voice is tinny, like it's coming from far away. "I'll be there in five minutes."

“Eddie, don’t--” Eddie’s already hung up.

 _"Fuck."_ The word is a gasp; his lungs are aching, his heart is pounding, Richie feels like he's going to fucking die. Here lies Richard 'Trashmouth' Tozier, murderous clown survivor, death by his internal organs giving him a big 'Fuck You.' His vision is darkening around the edges, and he holds the phone receiver to his chest like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe it is.

It feels like years have passed between Eddie hanging up and his arrival. Richie jolts when the door opens, drops the phone, and scrabbles backwards on his bed, his head connecting with the headboard with a hard _thunk_ that would have been hilarious if he _wasn't fucking dying._

Eddie doesn't hesitate, all but running to crawl onto the bed, kneeling in front of Richie. Richie tries to pull away when Eddie grabs his face, but there's nowhere for him to go.

"Richie. Richie, _look at me."_ His voice is quiet but firm, steady as he keeps Richie's face towards him. "Breathe, Richie, breathe with me." He inhales audibly through his nose, holds it for a moment, then exhales through his mouth. He repeats, forcing Richie to keep looking at him. "I'm here, Richie, just _breathe."_

Richie tries. He grabs Eddie's wrists in a death grip and keeps trying, continuing to stare at Eddie's eyes, mimicking the sound of his breathing. He doesn't know how long it takes, probably years, but his heart finally begins to slow, and his lungs don't feel like they’re seven times too small anymore.

"You with me, Richie?" Eddie asks quietly.

"Fuck, _Eddie."_ Fuck, shit, fuck, he's crying, when the hell did _that_ happen? Without thinking, he more or less launches himself at the smaller boy, arms around Eddie's chest as he shoves his face into his shirt.

Eddie falls back on his ass, but gets a tight hold around Richie's shoulders. "You're okay. You're okay, I promise."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie," he all but sobs. His face hurts from his glasses pushing into it, and they probably don't feel great pressing against Eddie's sternum, but neither of them loosen the awkward hug. "I thought I was going to fucking die."

"It was a panic attack," Eddie replies calmly, one hand moving to rub Richie's back. "They happen."

Richie should have recognized the symptoms of a panic attack; he's seen Eddie have enough of them over the years. Fuck, is that what it feels like every time? He has a newfound respect for Eddie, having gone through this so many times in his life. After one last deep, shaky breath, Richie pulls away. He attempts to surreptitiously wipe tears away with his wrist, but it's pointless considering the big wet spot on the front of Eddie's shirt. Richie wishes it would bother him, distract him, anything to take Eddie's high beam concerned look off of him.

Richie manages a faint laugh, leaning back against his headboard. "Can't believe you fuckin' rode over here. In five minutes. That's impressive as hell." He doesn't know if it had actually been only five minutes, but that was what Eddie had said, so he rolls with it. "How’d you even get in?"

"Your family never locks anything. I came in the back door."

It's such a soft pitch, but Richie can't manage anything more than a short _'ha.'_ Eddie frowns, and Richie takes off his glasses to clean them on his shirt. Any excuse to not look at Eddie right now. He can _feel_ Eddie staring, the worry and concern in his expression, and he fucking hates it. He's supposed to be the one there for his friends, to be awake to take phone calls in the middle of the night, to distract them from the horrors in the dark. Always there, even when they don't need him anymore. They're not supposed to have to worry about him, Richie Tozier doesn't let shit get to him.

He feels like the panic attack is a failure on his part. No wonder the others don't call him any more. He's weak. He's vulnerable. Eddie had to come to _his_ aid.

"Richie." Eddie's voice is soft and firm at the same time. "When was the last time you slept?"

Fuuuuuuck. Richie knew someone was bound to catch on eventually. "Five minutes ago, obviously." Eddie's face makes it clear that answer isn't going to fly. Richie puts his glasses back on and shrugs. "Today in English. Couldn't bring myself to give a shit about Jane Eyre." It wasn't a lie.

Eddie's frown deepens. "Okay, asshole. When was the last time you slept for more than thirty minutes?"

Richie doesn't answer. He doesn't want to lie -- okay, that's not true. He wants to lie, but he knows Eddie won't believe him. So he doesn’t say anything.

 _"Fuck, Richie,"_ Eddie exhales. "Nightmares?" Richie nods listlessly. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

“Jesus Christ, _fuck_ no."

Eddie sighs and gets off the bed. "Okay, that's fair." As he speaks, he's rifling through the clothes on Richie's floor. "At least put on some pajamas."

Richie grins. "Why Mr. Kaspbrak, you tryin' to get me into somethin' a little more _comfortable?"_ He's rewarded by a pair of boxers being thrown into his face.

"You'll sleep better if you're not in jeans, you _prick."_ He gives up his search with a frustrated noise. "Do you even own pajamas?"

"Somewhere, maybe. I normally sleep in my boxers." Despite having no intention of sleeping, Richie shimmies out of his jeans. It's then that he notices Eddie's in a pair of comfy-looking flannel pajama pants, with a matching button up top. He didn't even bother to get dressed before hopping on his bike to come to Richie's rescue. "Shit, Eddie, you didn't have to come over." With his experience, Eddie surely could have talked him down over the phone.

"I wasn't going to let your dumb ass hyperventilate and die." A pause. "You did the same for me," he says quietly. He returns to the bed and shoves Richie's shoulder. "Move over."

Richie's eyes widen, even as he complies. "Your mom's gonna lose her shit if you stay over here." His parents won't care, Richie knows. During the summer they're normally off to work before he gets up, anyway.

"She already did," Eddie says matter-of-factly. He pulls back the blanket and slides into the bed. "She caught me when I was leaving, so I'll deal with her in the morning."

"Eddie," Richie sighs, looking down at his friend, who's already settled on his side, ready for sleep. "You're going to catch hell if you don't go home."

"And _you_ desperately need to sleep." Eddie props himself up on an elbow. His frown is gone, replaced by that look of concern that makes Richie uncomfortable. "You look like shit."

"Boy, you sure know how to flatter a girl, Mr. Kaspbrak."

"I _mean_ it, Richie." Eddie sits back up, cross-legged, and Richie is dimly aware of the casual way Eddie's leg presses against his. It's a staring contest for a moment, one that Eddie wins when Richie looks away. Eddie sighs. "Hold on."

He leans over to turn off the bedside table lamp, and darkness floods the room. Richie's breath catches, but then Eddie's holding tightly onto his hands. “You're not alone. You're there for us, every night, no questions asked. Let us be there for _you."_ Eddie squeezes his hands. "Let _me_ be there for you."

For the past two years, Richie’s been terrified of the dark. It takes him back to vague but vivid memories of that sewer, to floating bodies, to that _'MISSING'_ poster with his face on it. But somehow, in this moment, the darkness makes it easier. He doesn't have to look at Eddie, doesn't have to keep a smile on his face, doesn't have to hold back the tears he can feel sliding down his cheeks.

He just has to hold on to Eddie’s hands, letting the other's presence ground him. "Fuck," he sobs, his shoulders shaking. He doesn't remember the nightmare, they always fade so quickly, but having Eddie here chases away the terror that always lingers after.

Eddie lets go of his hands, and Richie feels fingers fumble at his face for a moment before gently removing his glasses. He hears them being set on the nightstand, and then Eddie's hands are back, on his arms this time. Eddie tugs, and Richie lets himself be pulled forward, nearly collapsing into the other's embrace. He'd never realized just how much he depended on his friends's late phone calls, how much he needed to be needed in order to stay _sane._ He clutches at Eddie's still damp shirt as he now cries into his shoulder. Eddie holds him tightly, just letting him cry, and doesn't release him even as he pulls Richie to lay down with him.

Richie cries himself into a heavy, dreamless sleep, still holding on to Eddie.

\--

Stan never calls.

Later that year, Bill's family moves, and Richie prays that Bill doesn't forget him.

He does.

After that, it's Eddie and his mother, gone with only a week's notice, before Richie can really come to terms with it. Eddie hugs him tightly, promises, _swears_ that he'll come back as soon as he graduates and can get away from his mother.

He doesn't.

It's just Mike and Richie left, and when Richie decides to head out to California on his own, he says goodbye to the last of his friends.

He doesn't tell Mike that he'll call, or visit, or even write. He knows it will just end up being a lie.

\--

Richie's memories of Derry fade in only a few months. He makes new friends, but never gets close to them. He dates, but spends every relationship waiting for them to break up with him, sometimes going so far as to unintentionally drive them away. He makes it big in California, his humor finally refined enough to actually be considered funny, but that wall between himself and other people is still there.

He still doesn't sleep well. But he always has a phone on his nightstand, no matter how long of a cord he needs. When the world moves to cell phones, his is always on his pillow, the ringer volume up as high as it will go. It just seems right.

Twenty-seven years after it all, when Mike Hanlon calls him to summon him back to Derry, it's in the middle of the night.

And he's still awake.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I haven't editted anything ever as much as I've editted this. I'm talking moving huge chunks around, redoing the timeline like three times, adding a whole new section. I hope it paid off.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


End file.
